The Bendy Straw Boys' Epitaph
by a savage man
Summary: There's a lot of reasons Johnny Cade doesn't hang out with that dipshit Shepard kid anymore.


The water is as warm as the setting sun, and Johnny only shares a glance with the melted serbet sky before he jumps off the dock, letting the lake consume him as the splash leaves murky water sprayed across the rotting wood his bare feet had left. Making it back to the surface, he chokes on dirty water, a familiar burning sensation in his nostrils and throat from breathing when he should've had his trap shut. His hair is soaked and dripping lake and grease down his tanned face, and with the dark strands in his eyes and sticking to his cheeks the view of the Shepard kid still standing on the bank is like staring through the slats of venetian blinds.

But, Johnny doesn't need a good look at Curly to know he's wearing a taut grimace, an imitation of his older brother's he can't quite perfect. It's him trying to be serious when it never suited him well, and the boy bobbing for air in the water is having none of Sourpuss Shepard's hijinks.

"Charlie, you having fun watching me or what?" With no response, Johnny let out a groan as he leaned his head back, feet kicking in the water in a struggle to keep his head from going under.

"C'mon, stop being such a buzzkill." Grabbing soaked garbage that floated across the water, he threw it at Curly in a final attempt to persuade him to drop the act, the debris hitting him square in the mouth before it splattered against the ground. That got the rise out of him that Johnny wanted, and the boy spat and wiped lake water off his face as he burst into laughter, his signature grin replacing the hardened bad boy cliche he tried to wear.

"Ah, sick! You're going to pay for that Cade." Pulling off his now wet t-shirt, he tossed onto the ground next to the empty six pack in the grass, the beer drank on their way to the lake even if it had been meant for while they were there. Kicking off his sneakers and discarding his worn down jeans to the side, the smirk on his face isn't as sinister as normal when he's standing on the dock in his skivvies. Without a moments hesitation, he's barreling down the splintering wood, taking a leap of faith only to land hard in the water, Johnny not being able to shield himself from the splash that leaves him choking on water that tastes like piss.

In minutes both of them are underwater, and when they resurface in a fit of flailing limbs and drowning, neither are able to say much but laugh and cough as their lungs spill out the contents of a polluted lake. When Curly looks at Johnny this time, the careless look and the smile carved on his face burns it's way into his memory, and it'll make him queasy in a few months when he see's that nasty scar on the boy's cheek and a grin rarely grace his lips after having the everloving christ beaten out of him.

But in the setting summer sun the only thing killing his buzz is the ache from an elbow to the ribs. Taking one more look at Johnny, and the perfect array of straight teeth behind full lips, he's already clamouring for the dock with the boy on his heels. The sky was already fading from oranges to navy, and if they were going to make it to midnight they were going to need stronger liquor.

Staring at the star speckled sky his shoulders gave in, and he headed towards the car he had 'borrowed' from Buck, who still wasn't aware it was gone. Turning back with a grin, and tilting his head at an angle as he watched Johnny struggle to lift himself onto the rotting dock, his voice came out more mocking then he had initially intended.

"Johnnycakes, want me to call Dallas to come an' help you?" The chuckles escaping him were cut off as a hand wrapping around his ankle caused the ground to be pulled out from underneath him, and as his face bounced off the wood he considered taking the stolen whiskey bottle in the back of the car and smashing it over the other boy's head.

Before he had managed to lift himself up the slightest, Johnny was already walking over him, shaking his head as he went.

"Man, if I was you I wouldn't talk so much shit." Sauntering towards the car, dark eyes illuminated, Curly couldn't help but watch him and the way he moved. For a kid covered in bruises from beatings he never deserved, when he drank he always seemed to turn into something different, his hands pulling the near full whiskey bottle our of the car window in triumph before unscrewing the cap and taking a hearty mouthful. In the light of a setting sun being eaten by the tops of hungry trees, dark blue eyes follow the way fire seems to melt into the greaser's skin, and it all makes his stomach churn.

Ripping himself from the dock, the hood blames his compulsions on the fact he hadn't been to church since his dad left, and when he finally makes it to his partner in crime and rips the bottle from his hands, he wonders if the booze tastes as bitter as Johnny's lips.


End file.
